


yesterday was hard on all of us

by fracturedvaels



Series: tumblr fics and writing scraps [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Flashbacks, Gen, PTSD, Post-Canon, Trauma, anders lives verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:33:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4188732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fracturedvaels/pseuds/fracturedvaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian is taking what happened in Kirkwall harder than he wants to, harder than he feels he ought to, and he hates himself for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	yesterday was hard on all of us

**Author's Note:**

> Combination of two tumblr fics. Alternate universe tag because in game, you can't keep Sebastian if you send Anders away, though I wish you could so I didn't have to kill him and could keep Seb, whom I adore more than words.

It’s a cold night in camp. Kirkwall is long behind them, Anders was sent away. Sebastian wants to be angry, but Hawke promised justice, and he trusts no one if he doesn’t trust Hawke.

They’re sleeping in rounds, splitting watch. He tries to sleep but every time he closes his eyes they burn, he sees them, hears his own screaming in his head. He sits up in a panic and curls in, forehead pressed to his knees and trying not to cry.

Merrill is by him in an instant, hands on his arm, asking: what’s wrong? And he can’t find the words to tell her: I saw you there. He can’t tell her how every time he dreams, the flames fan out farther, debris goes wider, crater gets bigger. How he’s plagued by nightmares of her crushed under stone, Aveline wreathed in flame, the brothers bathed in blood. He can’t tell her about Isabela’s bloody demise, or even Varric’s, _or even Anders’._

He can’t tell her. So he says: my head just hurts. And he tells her: just a stomach ache. And he tells her it’s too warm, he needs air, he tells her he doesn’t feel well and goes to sit in the woods a little ways away.

And he hears Varric complaining and Isabela mocking and Aveline sighing. “Weak,” they say. “Bitter. Stupid.” But that’s okay. That’s okay. He’d rather have that then what he sees when he closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“They’re called fireworks,” Isabela smirks as she leans forward on the balcony’s bannister. Fenris leans forward beside her, and Merrill to her other side; the rest of them are scattered around, save for Aveline, who is inside asleep. They’d stopped at Tantervale to rest and hideout and forgot about some important festival or another; Sebastian supposes he should’ve mentioned it, but he hasn’t been sleeping well. Some days, he can’t even remember his own name. He doesn’t talk as much, these days.

The small house they snuck into is in the middle of a large batch of dead houses. Houses with owners but no tenants, houses left to fall apart, sitting on the riverside and leaning to collapse into the water. Hawke said they’d hide there for a few days, and sent them all out to find things in the city they could use.

All of them except Sebastian.

‘Just get some rest,’ he’d said, voice soft and not unkind as he clapped a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. Did he really look that bad? Maker, he was so selfish. He wasn’t the only one who’d lost someone in Kirkwall. But he felt like he was clinging to the peripheral of it all, loose on the outside of the group. Maybe he was imagining it, the sneers, the bitter words, the angry eyes. Maybe this was one really long, horrible fever dream; a punishment from the Maker and Andraste for being so flaky and unsteady.

Light burn him, but he’d deserve it.

Hawke had shuffled off too, after that, heading out to find supplies. And Sebastian had shuffled to the small room that had been all but deemed his when they arrived. Terrible thoughts rolled in his head, of course, thoughts like: what if they didn’t return? What if they had all decided this, during one of the times he’d fallen behind while walking? It would be easier on them if they did, if this was just an excuse to shake him out. He deserved no less than abandonment; that was something that the heavens had been trying to drill into him since birth. Hadn’t his parents pushed him aside? Hadn’t his brothers held him at arms’ length? Hadn’t his family thrown him to the Chantry the first chance they got, rather than deal with that clawing emptiness inside of him? And then when they looked to be forgiving him, they were killed. And then the Grand Cleric and all the mothers and sisters and brothers… Maker.

_Maker_.

Sebastian fell into a weak and restless sleep thinking about it. It didn’t matter; if they didn’t come back for him, if they left him there, it’d be for the better. And if they did come back, he thought, maybe he’d leave on his own. When night fell, he’d just go. They wouldn’t miss him, if he did.

Except now they were almost all eagerly watching with anticipation for whatever show was about to begin. They were miles from the festivities, but it was only the first night; maybe they’d eventually go, but for now, they lingered in the dead house and watched. Sebastian stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, not really seeing until the lights went up.

And Maker, did they go up. Red and white, red and white, red and white again and again and again. They soared into the air piercing the dark of the night sky, cutting it like a beam of mage fire.

In Sebastian’s head, the explosions were as close as a few feet away. He could feel the prickle of dust and crushed glass brushing his cheek and going into his eyes, the intense heat. No one else seems affected, or maybe they’re hiding it better; his skin feels too hot, too slick, and his eyes are prickling watching and he can hear screams, screams from the crowd. They could be excitement but he just hears terror.

Sebastian pushes back from the wall, clutching himself, and goes inside of the house and away from the noises. But he can’t escape them, not really; he stumbles and trips in the dark hallway, trying to find his way to the little room that’s his. He trips somewhere down the hallway, though, and ends up crouched on his knees, clutching his ears to his head as he tries to breathe and to not scream.

He almost does, anyway, when someone rests a hand on his lower back. Big and gentle, and they rub up and down his back soothingly, and when his mind loosens enough he can hear Hawke’s voice, and he can hear crying, and he can feel cold and wet on his face.

And, oh. The crying is from _him_. Those are _tears_. _His_  tears.

Maker, and he thought he was doing so _well_.

When Hawke reaches for him, Sebastian throws himself into the mage’s arms, holds onto him tightly. Part of it is the need for grounding; he needs to know he’s not floating in the dark, or at least that he isn’t alone. And part of it is to remember, to feel safe, to know there’s someone who cares about him enough to follow when he stumbles down dark and unknown hallways. Hawke’s always like this, though, even for strangers, but Sebastian just wants to at least pretend that this isn’t Hawke being Hawke, and pretend that he actually cares about the archer. Maybe he does, but Sebastian can never tell, and he’s always going to be second guessing.

And part of it, of course, part of it - the only part he’d likely admit to - is to block out the lights and the sounds. To bury his head somewhere dark and safe and soothing and wash out the chunks of rock and the fire and the screams. Hawke doesn’t push him away when he clings to him; rather, he puts his arms around Sebastian, and sits back and holds his friend. He keeps one hand to the back of Sebastian’s head and lets the other rub up and down his back, and he says such kind, kind words, but it’s mostly his tone that lulls Sebastian back to relative calm.

They don’t move from the hallway for a long while, but neither of them says anything even when they do. Hawke takes him back to his little cot in his little room, but he sits with Sebastian till the younger man has fallen asleep. And in the morning, no body says anything about it, and it’s the same as usual - they all talk, and Sebastian mostly listens, but Hawke sits next to him and keeps a hand on his knee. Not a romantic gesture, just a friendly one, and Sebastian lays his own hand on top of Hawke’s because he needs to feel like this is his choice. He’s not floating away, not because he’s held down, but because he’s holding on.

Maybe it’s a little lie. It’s definitely stupid, he thinks, so, so stupid. But it helps, for as long as it goes. It helps.


End file.
